Two legacies
by Waterfowl
Summary: Dean pushes himself to the limit over Sammy gone AWOL to Flagstaff. Set pre-series  alludes to the events, mentioned in 'Dark Side of The Mood', s.5. . John's POV.


**A/N: Dean's exposure to the assorted experiences of Sam's private Heaven had always left me utterly heartsick. The Flagstaff incident, in particular. For there's no fathoming exactly what kind of Hell Dean went through, while his little brother was AWOL. I'm sure, this has been done in fanfic numerous, but here's my coin in the Flagstaff fountain, to boot.**

**Set pre-series (alludes to the events, mentioned in 'Dark Side of the Moon', s.5). Dean pushes himself to the limit over Sammy gone missing. I'm going for the 1995 timeline (with Dean about 16 and Sammy about 12). Have encountered this reading elsewhere, a couple of times, and have adopted this piece of fanon.**

**I'm not sure I'm too comfortable with John's voice, but that was the necessary narrative perspective, so there.**

**Disclaimer: None of the characters, plot-points, inherent to the show, belong to me. **

**Two legacies***

The instant urge to smack the kid upside his head, hard, for running off into the blue like that was soon overcome by an equally fierce one to hug him. Which John did, concentrating on the small noises Sammy was producing, smothered tight into his Dad's embrace, by way of huffing or, maybe, sniffling. The boy sure did look petrified as John barged into this cabin, his youngest squatted those past two weeks.

No other sounds permeated the stillness for a long moment, but the cacophony of ragged breathing - Sam's, John's own, suspiciously hitched at the sight of his son in one piece after a fortnight's worth of frantic search and more frantic apprehensions, and the dog's, waggling its tail to welcome the newcomer. Looks like Sammy got himself quite a bit of 'normal' there, doggy-dog and all, John's mind trailed off up till an audible blunt thud cut through the grudgy reverie.

"Dean?" – Sam was peeking from beneath his arm, prompting John to rotate one-eighty to the skewed door-frame.

Dean had lagged behind, once they arrived at the cabin, but there was no deferring John from burrowing head-first into the building to the luring echo of a dog's exuberant barking and a child's laughter, first thing upon killing Impala's engine. Dean could've stayed to lounge in the car, for all he knew. Aside from spitting crisp orders at his elder son, he didn't do much more in the communication department those days.

So now John caught himself transfixed, regarding his first-born's form sprawled motionlessly, face up, on the littered floor by the room threshold. Looking, for all the world, very much dead. The concept rang so foreign, his arms went oddly weak, forcing to loosen the death-grip on Sammy's shoulders. Sure enough, the boy took advantage of his opening and landed by his brother's prone side in one fluid leap with yet another quacked out 'Dean!'.

John's own steps followed far slower. Heavier. The two weeks' worth of ever escalating fright claiming its due, seeping the energy out of his members at the least appropriate moment. He'd feared to find Sammy like that. Drank himself numb for the nights to shoo away many an all too vivid image of Sammy's mutilated body out there. Broken. Unalive. That it should be Dean's, splayed on the floor, a limp heap of joints and limbs, amidst the moment of sheer, uninhibited relief, just didn't make sense.

First things first, he knelt by, hand darting to prod against Dean's neck for the pulse. Decidedly ignoring the fact Sam had, apparently, already done that, and to avail, enthralled now into shaking his brother's shoulder with sizzling precision:

"Dean! Wake up! C'mon, Dean!" – he couldn't but notice Sam's voice began to break ever so increasingly with each upcoming '_Dean_!'.

John busied himself with ripping Dean's button-up open. All of a sudden, the idea of getting the boy access to more air of paramount importance. At least as long as it helped keep his eyes off Dean's blanched face.

God! That kid… He was certain to have recoiled visibly, forced to take a closer look, while reaching behind Dean's head to check for any extra injury from the fall. Thick shadows cast beneath the eyes; skin parched into a gossamer shade of pallid, John was more accustomed for the creatures they hunted to sport, his son's features were sharper and far gaunter than he remembered… well… all the way before he left to wrap up that case, anyway. 'Wasted', sprang to mind, unbidden, on cue with a renewed bout of dread. When was the last time Dean ate anything, through the search frenzy? Slept? That John in all honesty couldn't conjure up an answer to that made his insides turn on the spot, leaving a vile taste at the back of his throat.

"Dad! We need to get him to a hospital." – Sam's voice snapped his focus back on, bringing his gaze to pry, at the long last, away from the agonized frown Dean's brow seemed to somehow have molded itself into without his Dad as much as noticing.

Sam was tugging at his sleeve by then, the stare boring into John's countenance a mixture of urgency and determination.

"Dad! Let's go!"

Just when exactly did _that_ kid pick up the idea of being the one in charge here?

A hospital was out of the question, so much John was sure of. Against the unconcealing backdrop of Dean's newfound ashen pallor, the shades of fading bruises – over his cheek-bone and jaw – stood out all the more prominently. John was aware he might have been out of the line a couple of times, blinded by rage and frustration, as the days ticked by, turning up a whole lot of dead-end leads and cold trails. Then again, John had been scared half out of his head. He'd never believe he could've missed Mary more than he already did, and yet, then was the time. Mary would always see right through his anger. He had but to wish Dean could too. Someday.

In the meantime, nervous exhaustion – for that was what caused his eldest to black out cold on his tracks, he presumed – and dehydration topped with traces of hit marks would scream child abuse to anyone who'd bother enough to listen. And John was definitely in no aptitude to deal with any of that BS at the moment. He'd just got one son back, to be threatened to lose another by a bunch of strangers having no goddamned _first_ clue what it took to be a Winchester. Or a father, for that matter.

His stare landed back on Sam, the stern resolve full-ahead.

"No hospital. Pack up your stuff. We're going home." – if Sam actually dared to shoot him back a dagger, before standing up to fetch his duffel, John didn't care to dwell on it too closely for right now. The kid was due being ripped a new one fairly soon, anyway.

Sixteen as he was, Dean was sure no lightweight. Heck, John saw to it through hours of training that all that muscle made its proper way onto his eldest still growing frame. A darn fine job too he'd swear he'd done thereof, so far. Still he cringed, in surprise, picking Dean, unconscious still, off the floor; the kid's body remarkably frail in his arms. He had to file it off for a surge of adrenaline, coursing through his veins for the past fortnight, or else he'd have to admit to his boy's fading away quietly on his watch. His grasp around Dean's still form tightened for a beat, lest he let the son he was yet to _ever_ consider losing, seep right through his fingers.

* * *

In between the two of them, John and Sam managed to goad Dean into some microwaved broth and water, once installed safely back in the motel. Not that he was into it, or even awake, half through the venture. Much as John longed to put the place behind them, and as many miles in between Sammy and that cabin as possible, truth be told, Dean was apparently in no capability to hit the road, for a couple of days more, at least.

John flipped the TV off, irked by the nagging drone, eventually. His mind too jarred by the recent events, he could hardly wrap it around piecing together any omens for the next case. So he allowed himself to relax into the room's only chair, eyes sweeping idly over the darkened perimeter. Dean was fast asleep, beneath the covers. Although still way too pale to John's liking, his features notably relaxed over the span of erratic hours Dean was aware enough to get a good eyeful of Sam. Sammy's own self was right nearby, perched on the side of Dean's bed, arms flung over Dean's shoulders, snuggling his brother's larger frame like he would a stuffed toy he never quite had.

John watched his sons, entwined like a jigsaw puzzle, and wondered wistfully at the kind of truce the kids managed to reach over the matter, without as much as saying anything. Dean's cheek rested on the crown of Sam's hair, his whole body attuned inadvertently to the proximity of the little brother. John could recall Mary being the exact same way around the boys, back in the day. Which, incidentally enough, drove him to covet for the measure of acceptance, Dean was apt to master. It would appear, Dean had forgiven the moment he spotted Sammy, alive and intact, in that shabby cabin. John wished he could let go too. Just as easily. Let go of it all and forgive himself.

"I'm so sorry, kiddo."

Moreso still, he wished Dean could see through his guilt, as well. Someday.

* * *

*You left me, sweet, two legacies,-

A legacy of love

A Heavenly Father would content,

Had He the offer of;

You left me boundaries of pain

Capacious as the sea,

Between eternity and time,

Your consciousness and me.

(by Emily Dickinson)


End file.
